


A Morning At Sea

by anistarrose



Series: Stanuary 2019 [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesiac Stan Pines, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stangst, a very brief alcohol/drugs reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 12:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anistarrose/pseuds/anistarrose
Summary: Stan has woken up in plenty of unfamiliar places before, but waking up in a boat out in the middle of the ocean is new. Especially in a boat that seems so… welcoming.





	A Morning At Sea

**Author's Note:**

> For Stanuary Week 2: Travel! (which I technically already [wrote something for,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353937/chapters/40832153) but that was a short, spur-of-the-moment thing, while this is a fic I’ve had for over six months now, so I figure it’s probably about time I finally post it, huh?)

When Stan woke up, there was a brief moment for which he didn’t feel like anything was wrong. Hell, he felt _happy_ , which should have made it obvious that something _was_ very wrong, but for about a minute, he just stayed where he was, and listened to the waves strike the side of the boat.

Then he realized: he had no idea why he was on a boat.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, body going stiff beneath the blankets of an unfamiliar bed. He’d known the hotel he’d checked into last night had been shady, but he didn’t think he’d get fucking _kidnapped._ And that had been in Oklahoma, hours away from any decent-sized body of water — how the hell had they had they even managed to bring him here, wherever _here_ was? Had they drugged him? He was pretty sure he’d drank a little alcohol last night, but nowhere near enough to sleep though getting dragged out of his room and onto a boat, right?

And _why_ would they go this far? Stan had plenty of people who wanted him dead, and maybe even a couple who might have wanted a longer, more drawn out revenge, but there _had_ to be easier ways doing that than throwing him into a cramped — but actually kind of cozy — bunk on a random ship.

He laid still for a few more seconds, and once he was sure no one else was in the room, he finally stood up and took a second to look around. Dirty clothes were in a pile on the floor, about half T-shirts and half sweaters. There was a small nightstand crammed between his bed and the side of the boat, with an empty mug, a pair of glasses, and a picture frame on it. The mug smelled of chocolate, but the stains at the bottom suggested it had been used for coffee too in the past. 

He figured that his kidnappers must have stolen the boat and been too lazy to get rid of the stuff they found in it, because he definitely hadn’t drank anything from the mug, he didn’t even _own_ a pair of glasses anymore, and it wasn’t really the style of any of his serious enemies to keep a picture of their family lying around. The clothes didn’t seem like the type that any self-respecting revenge-bent criminal would own, either — too many colorful sweaters, and they looked hand-knitted at that.

For a second, though, he thought the kids in the photo looked vaguely familiar — a boy and a girl that were about the same age and had the same fluffy brown hair, as if they were twins. But the next moment the feeling was gone, and Stan realized he must have imagined it.

This whole cabin was throwing him off. It was just too… welcoming. Too caring. Too full of the mementos of some stranger’s loving family.

Stan didn’t belong here. 

He sat back down on the bed and rested his head in his hands. How the hell was he going to get out of this one, even if he could get off the boat without anyone seeing? He was an okay swimmer under normal conditions, but the waves had sounded pretty rough, and if he was too far from the shore —

_Stay calm, Stan_ , he told himself. He’d improvised his way out of worse things before. He just had to figure out what the hell was actually _going on_ , and _then_ he’d be able to bullshit his way through it.

The only door was just past the foot of the bed. He put his ear to it for a moment, and when he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the waves, he reached for the handle.

He’d expected it to be locked, which was why he hadn’t worried about leaning up against the door as he turned the knob. What kind of kidnapper didn’t lock up their hostage? But no, it swung right open under his weight, letting out a creak that had to be loud enough to hear over the waves. _Fuck_.

The room it opened into must have been a kitchen — it contained a tiny square table and two chairs on one side, and on the other side, a stove and a few other appliances. Facing towards that stove, his back to Stan, was a man who wore a red turtleneck sweater and had… gray hair? There were _elderly_ people after him now?

“Morning, Stanley,” he called without turning around, and a chill went up Stan’s spine. The man knew his _real_ name, even though he hadn’t used in years. The stranger had to have been at least in his fifties, maybe even older, but if he’d managed to track Stan down through all the fake identities… Stan wasn’t sure if he liked his chances up against this guy. 

“I assume you’ll want coffee?” he asked, and for a second Stan thought that there was someone else named Stanley on the boat and _that_ was who the man was talking to so casually, but no one else replied, and the stranger turned around to face him. “Stan, is everything alright?”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Stan whispered.

The old man’s expression turned into what Stan could have sworn was fear — except that didn’t any make sense. He slammed the mug he was holding onto the table and rushed towards Stan, reaching out with his left arm to grab Stan by the shoulder. “Stanley, are you —”

Stan caught the man’s hand, barely. His reflexes felt slower than they should have been.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled. “Tell me who the hell you are or I swear I’ll take you up on the deck and throw you off the fucking boat.”

For a moment, the old man just stared at him, and Stan wondered if they’d met before, even though he was pretty sure he’d remember if someone this old was after him. There was just something familiar about that confused, shocked expression, the way those eyebrows raised…

Then the man’s face crumpled. If Stan hadn’t been gripping his wrist, he might have collapsed to the floor.

“You don’t remember,” he whispered. “All this progress, and…”

He tried to gently pull his hand away, but Stan held it tight.

“Explain, old man!” Stan shouted. “You heard what I said about throwing you… I — I’ll…”

Looking at the man’s heartbroken expression, Stan found he couldn’t finish the sentence. Why was it that he _cared_ so much about this stranger? Why did seeing him upset made Stan feel like _punching_ something?

“Hey,” Stan said, letting go of the man’s wrist and taking him by the shoulder instead, if only to keep him from collapsing. “I, uh… I’m sorry. I still want you to explain what’s going on, ‘cause I sure don’t know, but I’m — I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Don’t apologize,” the man whispered, his head hanging low in defeat. “It’s not your fault — it’s mine. _All_ mine. I thought… I thought that we’d escaped any lasting consequences, but… oh, if only I had the scrapbook here, maybe I could —”

“Hey, uh, don’t worry.” Stan awkwardly patted the man on the back. “I don’t actually know what’s wrong, but… but I’m sure we can figure out _something_ …”

The man made eye contact with Stan, a short but painful shared glance, but he didn’t reply. He kept talking, but he wasn’t speaking to Stan anymore, not really — just talking to himself, _berating_ himself. 

“This is all my fault. _I_ had to do this to you, because I was such an idiot I had to _correct your grammar_ of all things —”

He raised a hand to the side of his face — and Stan finally got a look at his fingers. All six of them

“ _Ford_?!”

Lightning-fast, the man grabbed him by the shoulder, and this time Stan didn’t stop him.

“Stanley? What do you remember?”

Stan didn’t answer. He _couldn’t_ answer. 

Of _course_ it was Ford. He had the same glaringly large nose and ears, the same Pines cowlick, hell, even the same style of glasses as the ones he’d worn in high school. But his hair was dark gray with a lighter gray stripe running through it, and his face was worn and creased — perhaps by smiles, but more likely by frowns.

“W-what the hell happened to you, Stanford?” Stan stammered. “How did you — how did you get so _old_?”

Ford seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if some realization had dawned on him. “All right, you’ve only forgotten… this is alright. You’ll be okay, Stan.” 

His voice was oddly comforting — or at least, it might have been, had Stan not been bracing himself for it to turn resentful and betrayed.

But Ford guided him towards the table, gently and without incident. Stan almost protested that he didn’t need help, but just at that moment, a sudden, throbbing pain began to emanate from the side of his head, and he bit his lip. It dulled after a moment, but as Ford helped him ease down into the chair, he still felt feverish.

He knew he had some kind of amnesia; even _he_ could put that much together. But everything else made so little sense — how long had it been, why was _Ford_ with him again… 

“You said I was… forgetting things,” he began, and Ford nodded, a guilty look on his face. “I don’t remember anything past ‘78, but… you’re older than — it’s later than —”

Ford nodded again, and this time he gently squeezed Stan’s shoulder too. 

“Part of me doesn’t even wanna know,” Stan went on, “but… how old _am_ I? How long — how much of _my own life_ did I miss?”

Ford looked away for a moment, like he was pondering how to break the news most gently.

“It’s 2012,” he finally said. “September 27th, 2012. We’re sixty-one.”

There was something about the way he said _we’re_ that felt so different from the last Ford that Stan remembered, the _why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?!_ Ford from that horrible night after the science fair. This Ford _did_ want something to do with Stan, it seemed — but he was different in other ways, too, like the way he gave off such a… such an _atmosphere_ of regret and self-blame, so tangible that you could practically suffocate in it. This was a Ford that had taken something for granted and lost it, with the jury still out on whether he would ever get it back.

For the second time that day, Stan found himself blurting out: “Ford, what _happened_ to you?”

“What happened to _me_?” Ford repeated incredulously. “ _You’re_ the one who’s —”

“Fine. What happened to _us_?”

Ford sighed. “That’s the million-dollar-question, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making light of any of this. But if… if you think you’ll be alright on your own for a moment, I might be able to grab something that could help bring some of those memories back.”

Stan nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Ford gave him a suspicious look, like he was skeptical of how _fine_ Stan would really be, but he got up and headed towards Stan’s room in the back of the boat — 

Stan had completely forgotten they were on a _boat_. Had… had Ford really forgiven him so much that he…

A bolt of pain ran down the back of his skull, and he shuddered and raised his hands to cover his ears. But it didn’t stop words that were unfamiliar and familiar at once from echoing around him he was plunged into darkness, strange glowing blue symbols providing the only source of light.

_“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”_

He gasped for breath, and suddenly everything was different, everything was lighter and warmer. Birds and insects were chirping all around him, as he stood outside a cabin — no, a _shack_.

_“I don’t just want someone to come with me, Stanley; I want it to be_ you _. Will you give me a second chance?”_

Then someone was shaking him by the shoulder, and the same voice was speaking to him, sounding so much less distant all of a sudden —

“Stanley? Stanley, are you alright? Can you…” 

The voice trailed off for a moment. “Are you crying?”

“Ford?” Stan asked slowly.

“I’m here,” Ford replied, quietly and slowly. In his hand was the picture from Stan’s room, the one of the two kids. “I’m here, Stanley.”

“Ford, what’s the name of this boat?”

For the first time that morning, Ford smiled. “We called it the _Stan O’ War II_.”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “That’s what I —”

(Guessed? Hoped? Thought, but was afraid to say, because he wouldn’t have known what to do if Ford had told him he was wrong?

...but as afraid as he’d been to put it to words, he’d known it was an irrational fear. He’d _known_ he was right.)

He finally returned Ford’s smile. “That’s what I remembered.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments are welcomed as always!


End file.
